


The Mighty Yes

by NeuralBallast



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:34:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26181991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeuralBallast/pseuds/NeuralBallast
Summary: Beauregard Lionett has been in.... well, a bit of trouble lately, and needs to attend Saturday morning group sessions for juvenile delinquents in order to avoid being sent off to military school. Her fellow teenage fuck-ups are a bunch of weirdos, but as time goes by, the jaded, anxious, bitter Beauregard decides that maybe she doesn't completely hate ALL of them.(Highschool AU, vaguely Breakfast Club-y, mostly Beau's POV, probably Beau/Yasha at some point, maybe some Beau/Jester but that's probably not endgame, honestly I make no promises I'm just seeing where this goes.)
Relationships: Beauregard Lionett/Yasha, Jester Lavorre/Beauregard Lionett
Comments: 24
Kudos: 74





	1. Chapter 1

It was Saturday, 7:30 AM, and if there was one place in the entire fucking _world_ that Beauregard Lionett did not want to be, it was at school.  
  
She stood facing the gray building, hands stuffed deep in her pockets, glaring at the ugly rectangular facade as though she could challenge it to a fistfight. She would, if she could: nothing would help her mood right now more than punching something.  
  
In fact, for a boxing or judo class, she’d happily have been up early on Saturday, hung over or not. But for… what were they calling this? Something something “youth” something “support” something.... It had a dumb accronym. She couldn’t remember. Whatever it was, it was a politically correct way of saying “group of teenage fuck-ups spend their Saturdays in therapy and community service so they don’t have to go to jail.” 

After the hearing last week, her dad had made it clear that this was the last step before military boarding school and/or foster care. And Beau was a fuck-up, but she wasn’t a _stupid_ fuck-up. She made the calculation and opted to give up her Saturdays for the next thousand years or so. She’d heard stories from the guys at the bars she’d sold to about the System, and while she knew she’d probably end up there eventually, spending a little longer under her father’s roof wouldn’t kill her.  
  
Probably.  
  
She could still feel the bruises from where her dad’s ‘explanations’ had ended and the ‘demonstrations’ had begun, though.  
  
She took a deep breath, rolled her shoulders back, and marched into the building.  
  
The halls were eerily empty and quiet as Beau wandered through. School without a horde of screaming teenagers was ghostly, and the building seemed even uglier and colder without the colorful jostling crowds of kids.  
  
When she got to the third floor classroom, her stomach sank as she saw the circle of chairs. Fuck, this really was going to be like group therapy, wasn’t it? They were going to make her talk about her _feelings_ and her _home life_ and her _role models_ and the need for _structure_ and _accountability_ , and even if she hadn’t been hungover, the mere thought made her want to barf.  
  
At least she was early, and most of the people weren’t there. In fact, so far only three other kids were in the room. Beau carefully did not make eye contact, but she sized them up out of the corner of her eye as she slouched into a chair.  
  
Two were sitting together. One was extraordinarily scruffy looking guy, who looked like he might’ve last washed his clothes by jumping in a river with them already on, and who hadn’t shaved the scraggly chin hairs that passed for a beard in at least a couple of weeks. Next to him was a girl, remarkably tiny, almost child-sized. She had the hood of her sweatshirt pulled up almost to cover her face, her chin buried in a turtleneck, and long bangs flopping into her eyes. She darted a brief glance in Beau’s direction before looking away again, and Beau realized there was something slightly odd about the small girl’s face, although she couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was.  
  
A few seats away from the odd pair was a very tall, lanky guy that Beau vaguely recognized. The long pink mohawk and the towering height made him hard to miss, even among the many hundreds of kids at Zadash High. She couldn’t remember his name. Cadwell? Something with a ‘c’. She’d heard he was the guy to go to if you wanted mushrooms, and figured that was probably why he was here. He gave her a gentle smile and a little wave, and Beau jerked her chin at him, which was as close to a ‘good morning’ as anyone was going to get out of her at this ungodly hour of the day.  
  
She slouched into a seat and began chewing her nails. 

  
The clock ticking sounded really loud.  
  
She pulled out her phone, started to type a text to Tori: _what r u doin tonight_ ? She thought about that, then changed it to “ _hey are u still mad”_ . Then she thought about that and changed it to _“please don’t be mad at me T”._ Then she thought about that, deleted the message, and shoved the phone back in her pocket, feeling anxious, frustrated, angry, guilty, horny, regretful, and hopeful all at once. Tori was too complicated to be thinking about at…. She glanced up at the clock again. Shit, was it really only 7:40? This thing wasn’t even starting for another twenty minutes. And Tori had probably only gone to bed, like, 4 hours ago, tops.  
  
_Someone else’s bed_ , whispered the evil voice in Beau’s head. 

  
Beau’s stomach twisted at the thought. It wasn’t like she and Tori were exclusive: hell, she probably slept with almost as many other girls as Tori did. (Almost. Tori’s skills at picking up girls were hard to beat.) But after their last... encounter, she wasn’t sure that Tori was ever going to speak to her again, much less smooth Beau’s hair back from her face and whisper in her ear _Hey, Beau, you know you’re my number one, right? You know that, baby._ _We’re never gonna let each other down. Never._  
  
Beau’s stomach churned. Don’t think about Tori right now.  
  
She bit deep into her fingernail and stared around the room, looking for a distraction. Shit, she should’ve brought a book or something.  
  
Restlessly, she stood up, and was going to go over to the bookshelf on the classroom wall to see if there was anything remotely interesting, when the door slammed open and a blue-haired girl in a pink sun dress literally _bounced_ into the room, her energy so extreme for this hour of the day that it was like a tiny shock wave.  
  
“Hi-i!!” said the girl, managing to give the greeting multiple syllables. “I’m Jester. Is this the right room??”  
  
“Depends. Are you here for the risky youth thing?” said the small hooded chick.  
  
“At-risk youth,” corrected her scruffy friend quietly.  
  
“I think so! … Fjord! Fjord, is that what we’re here for??” The blue haired girl turned behind her. “At-risk youth?”  
  
Beau hadn’t even noticed the other person who’d slunk in behind Miss Perky. Tall-ish kid, kind of clean-cut, in a green button down. He looked thoroughly out of place in this gang, and he seemed to think so too, because he just nodded hello and slunk into a seat near Beau without replying.  
  
The blue-haired girl didn’t seem to take offense at his silence. She threw herself into the seat between Beau and… ‘Fjord’? Was that the jock-y kid’s name?... and stuck a hand out at Beau with a cheerful grin.  
  
“Hey! I’m Jester! I _love_ your hair!”  
  
“Uh. Hey. I’m Beau,” said Beau, dragging her hand from her pocket and grasping the girl’s hand. What kid their age shook hands? Maybe they did wherever this girl was from: she had an accent that sounded faintly Russian to Beau. “Uh, thanks, I like yours too.”  
  
“I KNOW, isn’t it the BEST?? My mom helped me do it. She’s super great at doing hair and makeup and stuff!” Jester (and what the hell kind of name was that?? wondered Beau) looked around the room. “Isn’t there going to be any breakfast or anything?”  
  
“Breakfast?” snorted the small girl in the hoodie. “What do you think this is, a country club?”  
  
“Well, I just thought, you know, it’s really early in the morning, and it’s a Saturday, maybe there would be, like, some pastries or something?... Like, doughnuts?”  
  
There was a silence.  
  
“I have a granola bar you can have, if you’re hungry,” offered the pink-haired guy. Beau saw Jester suppress a nose-wrinkle.  
  
“No, thanks, that’s okay.” Some of the girl’s light seemed to dim. “Ughhhhh, I wish I were still _sleeping._ ” She threw herself back into her chair and closed her eyes. The abrupt transition in mood almost made Beau laugh. She wondered what the girl was here for. She seemed so…. wholesome. And her friend, the jock-y Fjord guy, looked like someone who probably went sailing with his dad on weekends, not a fuck-up who would need to be in Saturday morning detention-therapy-community-service-bullshit.  
  
A silence fell over the group again, somehow seeming even more awkward than before Jester had made her noisy, friendly entrance. Beau scratched her ear, and glanced at the clock again: 7:55. There were still three chairs empty. She eyed the bookcase again, but now it seemed weird to get up and go look at books, so she just bit her nails and stared at the floor.  
  
At 7:58, the door opened again, and every eye in the room turned to look. Two more kids. One was… well, Beau didn’t want to assume gender identity, but maybe male? The kid was incredibly colorfully dressed, with hair standing up in a shock of purple and red streaks, and an astonishing amount of jewelry and eye-makeup on for a casual Saturday morning juvenile delinquent’s group. Behind the first kid was a tall, muscular, pale girl dressed all in black, who managed to give off an air of quiet menace without making any eye contact at all.  
  
“Hey, all,” said the colorful kid, in a mellifluous tenor voice, and _stalked_ across the room like a fucking super model before collapsing gracefully into one of the remaining empty chairs.  
  
_Oh fuck, not a theater kid,_ Beau groaned mentally.  
  
The pale girl followed, somehow seeming to move very quietly despite her size, and sat silently in the chair next to her friend. _Hot_ , thought Beau, eyeing the leather jacket and the tattoos, and then _dangerous_ , looking at the biceps which bulged from her black t-shirt and the scar which ran across the pale girl’s lower lip. _Hot and dangerous_ , Beau decided, and became ever so slightly more resigned to the loss of her Saturdays for the foreseeable future.  
  
At 7:59, the door opened one final time. An actual adult this time: a blond woman in a blue dress, who looked a little harried but somehow pulled-together at the same time.  
  
“Hello, everyone! I’m so sorry I’m running late, I meant to be here before you all got here, but something came up, and… ah, well, I see no one’s killed anyone yet or set fire to anything, so I suppose there’s no harm done.”  
  
The woman deposited a bulging briefcase on the floor next to the one remaining empty chair, between Hot-Dangerous and Pink-Haired-Granola, and sat down herself, smoothing her blue skirt.  
  
“I’m Allura Vysoren, she/her, please feel free to call me Allura or Ms. Vysoren, as you please. I’ll be trying to keep you all out of trouble for the next few months.” She smiled around at all of them. “Let’s start with introductions, unless you’ve already done that. Would anyone like to go first?”


	2. Chapter 2

A long silence followed Allura’s invitation. Beau suppressed a grimace. What did this smiley white lady think they were,  _ joiners _ ? A bunch of lonely misfits, just looking for the right sympathetic adult to inspire them all to be their  _ best selves _ ? Fucking hell. They were all here because of some combination of a court order and/or guardian insistence. They were all here because they fell somewhere on a scale from moderately screwed up to functionally psychopathic. They were all here because they were running out of fucking choices. It was 8:02 on a goddamn Saturday morning, and if this blonde dame tried to make them play a name game, Beau was pretty sure she’d puke.    
  
The silence was broken by the pink-haired guy. “Uh. I guess I can go first.”   
  
Allura smiled at him encouragingly.    
  
“I’m Caduceus. Cad’s fine, if that’s too much of a mouthful. … Uh, he/him, I guess. I never really thought much about it. … Are we supposed to say anything else?”   
  
“Whatever you’d like us to know about you,” said Allura cheerfully.    
  
“What’re you here for,  _ Cad _ ?” piped up Tiny Hooded Girl. There was something spiky and aggressive about her, as though she’d bite anyone who came too close.    
  
“You don’t have to answer that if you’re not comfortable, Caduceus. We can get into those things later.”    
  
“No, that’s okay. I, um... I gave some drugs to friends. Nothing dangerous, nothing addictive, just stuff I grow. Grew. Medicinal, mostly,” said Cadeuceus. His manner was gentle. “I like growing things,” he added. And, after a pause “And cooking.”   
  
“What, like meth?” said Spiky Hooded Girl.   
  
Caduceus flinched a bit. “No. Like… vegetables.”   
  
“Oh.”

  
There didn’t seem to be much more to say to that.    
  
Fjord sat on Caduceus’ left. “Are we going around, or… what’re we doing?” he asked. There was a Texan drawl to his voice, and it looked like he might have ironed the collar on his shirt that morning before coming. Beau decided to hate him.    
  
“You can certainly go next, if you’d like,” said Allura.    
  
“Okay. I’m Fjord. There’s a silent ‘j’ in it. F-J-O-R-D.”   
  
Yup, Beau definitely hated him.    
  
“Is that, like, Polish, or what is that?” said Spiky Hooded Girl.    
  
“No. I dunno. I’m… it was just the name they gave me.”   
  
“They? You mean your mom and dad?” said Jester.   
  
“I don’t know, I’m not… I mean, I grew up in foster care. I don’t know who my parents are.”   
  
Jester blanched. “Oh god, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to… but you know, I don’t know who my dad is! So we have that in common!” she said, returning to cheerfulness almost immediately.    
  
“Is there anything else you’d like to tell us, Fjord?” Allura interrupted.    
  
“I… no. I don’t know. I think that’s all for now.” He sank back into his chair and picked at the buttons on his shirt.    
  
“Am I next? I’m next!” said Jester. “I’m Jester. I’m new here, I just moved from Nicodranas, on the coast.” She beamed around at them. “I like to draw. I guess that’s kind of why I’m here, actually, cuz I like to draw on lots of things, and sometimes people get mad about it?”   
  
“Do you mean, like, graffiti?” asked Spiky Hooded Girl. God, she sure was nosy. Beau decided to hate her too.    
  
“I guess so! Is that what you call it? I mean, I always try to make it pretty. I did a really great mural in the second floor girl’s bathroom last week!”   
  
That startled Beau. “Wait, are you talking about that... dick mandala thing??”    
  
Jester turned to her, delighted. “Yes! Did you see it before they covered it up?”   
  
“Yeah, I thought it was fucking funny as shit.”   
  
Jester looked even more delighted. “I thought so too! I meant it to look really pretty, like flowers everywhere, and then when you get up close all the petals are leeeeeeeeeetle penises!”   
  
Beau snorted with laughter, then got embarrassed and shut up.    
  
“Anyway,” said Jester, turning back to the group. “They were  _ super _ mad about it, and they told my mom, and that’s why I’m here!” She didn’t look even slightly upset about it, or guilty or abashed in any way. Beau decided that maybe she wouldn’t hate Jester.    
  
All eyes swiveled to Beau suddenly, and her palms started sweating as she realized that oh, of course, she was next up after Jester. “Oh, me? I’m Beau.” They seemed to expect more from her. “Beauregard.” And when they didn’t stop looking at her, “Beauregard Lionett. I know, it’s a weird-ass name. Oh, pronouns! She/her, I guess. Whatever.”   
  
“Anything you want us to know about you, Beau?” asked Allura.    
  
“Uh. Not really. I don’t know.”   
  
“How come you’re here?” asked Jester, and although the question annoyed Beau, she somehow didn’t mind it as much coming from the weird blue girl as she might have coming from another one of the group.    
  
“You don’t have to share if you don’t want to,” Allura reminded her.    
  
“Nah, that’s okay. I, um, I guess I’ve been stealing stuff.” Her father’s wine, primarily. But other things, too, if Tori wanted them and neither of them had the cash. Or if she was just bored as fuck and wanted the thrill. “And, um, selling stuff.” Again, her father’s wine, and sometimes pot if Tori needed help moving it, and once or twice some harder stuff, although she felt weird about that. “And, like, getting in fights.” Most weekends, either at the bar, or at home with her dad, or both. “I guess… I dunno, I just generally fuck up a lot.”   
  
No one had anything to say to that, and Beau was glad. She turned to her left, where The Drama Club Kid had elegantly draped one arm over the back of the seat and was sprawling lazily, looking thoroughly comfortable in what should have been an incredibly uncomfortable way to sit in a chair.  _ Definitely bisexual,  _ Beau thought.    
  
“Molly,” said the kid.    
  
“Pronouns?” asked Allura.    
  
“Absolutely whatever you please,” said Molly.    
  
“Anything else you’d like to–”   
  
“Nope.”    
  
“... All right then.”    
  
They got through the next two without incident. The Spiky Hooded Girl’s name was “Veth”, although she also gave them the alternative of calling her ‘Nott’. Both names sounded bizarre to Beau, but then, who was she to say anything about names. Veth-Nott, for all her curiosity about everyone else’s dirt, declined to offer any information about what her preferred brand of trouble was. Her friend – somehow Beau got the impression they were friends, not dating – was called Caleb, and he was similarly silent about what had landed him here. Beau couldn’t decide how to feel about him. She got the sense there was more going on there than his scruffy, scrawny appearance and downcast eyes suggested.    
  
Hot-and-Dangerous was last. Allura turned to the pale girl and smiled up at her. “Last, but not least?”   
  
“I’m... “ the girl cleared her throat. “I’m Yasha.” Beau was startled by how soft and gentle the tall girl’s voice was. She would’ve expected something low and husky from someone who looked like as much of an asskicker as this chick. “I…. I don’t think I know about this ‘pronouns’ thing. Is it just, like, what is your gender?”    
  
“More or less,” said Allura.    
  
“All right, I am a girl. Woman? She? ‘She’ pronouns, please.” A flush spread over Yasha’s pale face, and Beau almost laughed. Was this ripped chick  _ shy _ ? She looked like she could’ve picked up any one of them and chucked them out the window without breaking a sweat, but talking out loud in a group was making her blush. Cute. 

  
“And I’m here because… well. Because I hurt some people.”   
  
The words were said so softly that Beau had to lean forward to catch them, but the silence that followed was heavy and cold. ‘Hurt’? What did that mean? Like, beat up? Or …. Killed? Surely not, or Yasha would be in jail, not in a sunny classroom. Beau eyed the tattoos that snaked along Yasha’s arms, and it suddenly occured to her to wonder if Yasha was involved in some kind of white supremacist gang. Fuck. Suddenly Beau felt weird about finding her hot.    
  
“Well! That’s all of us,” said Allura, breaking the silence. “Thank you all for being here on time. Let me go over some rules, shall I?”    
  
“All of you are expected to be here each week, unless I am contacted personally by your legal guardian. All of you will arrive sober, engage in the planned activities and discussions to the best of your ability, and behave with consideration to one another. Anything said within the group is strictly confidential, although I will disclose to you that I am a mandated reporter, and if I have reason to believe that one of you is in danger, or is likely to be a danger to yourself or someone else, I will need to take action on that. Understood?”   
  
Silent nods all around.    
  
“Failing to attend without prior arrangement with me, failing to engage appropriately in discussion or activities, or displays of aggression or violence towards any member of the group, may mean that you are removed from the group and we will need to return to the courts or to your guardians to discuss other options. This is at my discretion, so please, my dears … don’t piss me off.” Allura smiled cheerfully at all of them. “I’m not going to be an asshole about it, but please don’t treat this group as a time to test boundaries or play stupid games. All of you here have big stuff to deal with, and the point of this group is to help you to move forward as best you can from mistakes you’ve made and the bad hands you’ve been dealt. Is all of that clear?”   
  
More silent nods.   
  
“Excellent. I’m handing around a behavior contract to sign, which says all the same things I just said, but with more words. Signing indicates that you understand and intend to abide by these rules. Anyone need a pen?”   
  
Contracts and pens were handed around. Beau scanned hers quickly, just in case there was anything in there about a bullshit dress code, or giving up her first born child or something, but it was pretty much what Allura had said already. She started to sign it, and realized the pen was dry. She scribbled with it until it tore a hole through the paper: no luck.    
  
Beau looked around the room. Fjord and Caleb were still carefully reading the contract. Nerds. Molly was minutely examining an elaborate painted fingernail. Veth was taking a sip from a water bottle, and something about the shifty way she did it made Beau suspect there was something besides water in it. Caduceus had closed his eyes, and was either asleep or meditating; Allura was moving to write something on the large whiteboard at the front of the room; and Jester was busily engaged in using her pen to create an elaborate margin of grotesque faces around her contract.    
  
Only Yasha looked up when Beau’s eye passed over her, and as they made eye contact Beau was startled to see that Yasha had two distinctly different colored eyes: one was light blue-green, the other much darker, almost violet. Beau’s stomach did a little flip-flop. Shit, the gang girl was  _ hot _ .    
  
And she was lifting her eyebrows at Beau, with a hint – just the faintest, tiniest hint – of a shy smile.    
  
Beau very carefully did  _ not _ grin stupidly back at her, and made a little scribbling motion with her pen. Yasha nodded, and tossed hers across the circle to Beau. Beau, who had  _ amazing _ hand-eye coordination, thank you very much, as long as it wasn’t ridiculously attractive probably dangerous tall buff girls with mesmerizing eyes who were pitching, wildly fumbled the catch and knocked the pen into the startled face of Fjord.    
  
“Ow!” said Fjord. “What the–”   
  
“Sorry. Sorry,” said Beau. “It wasn’t on purpose, I just… I needed a new pen, and…”   
  
“Smooth move, kid,” purred Molly, and Beau thought about punching him, but by the time she had ducked under Fjord’s chair to collect Yasha’s escaped pen and come up again, Allura was going around collecting the signed contracts, and the moment for punching Molly seemed to have passed. Oh well. The opportunity would probably come up again.    
  
The next thing on the agenda was the structure of the sessions. Apparently their time was going to be split between group therapy-type work, and community service activities. Beau gritted her teeth as she imagined spending the next infinity of Saturdays being forced to share her feelings and pick up trash down by the river, while trying to pretend to her dad that all this was somehow ‘turning her around’. Fuck. Maybe she should’ve opted for military school after all.    
  
“For our first exercise, I’d like you all to split into pairs and trios, however you prefer, and talk about the following questions.” Allura pointed to the chalkboard. “One, if you could make any changes to your current circumstances, what would those be? Two, what would you like to get out of your time in this group? And three, what skills or abilities do you have to offer that might help your fellow group members?”   
  
Beau gritted her teeth even harder. 8:45, and she was already being expected to engage in Self-Insight. She didn’t want to. She wanted to go back to sleep. She wanted to run away. She wanted to punch that Molly kid. She wanted to find out if Yasha was racist or a murderer so she would know if it was okay to lust after her. She wanted to go find Tori, whatever bed Tori had ended up in last night, and shuck all her clothes and curl up naked next to Tori and whoever else was there and take a nap and then wake up and go find some shit to get into. Fuck this bullshit.    
  
Instead, swallowing her resentment, she let Jester tug her into a trio with Fjord.    
  
“Okay, so!” said Jester. “.... What was the first question again?”   
  
“Changes,” said Fjord. “What changes would we make. To our current circumstances.”   
  
They all thought about it.    
  
“Unlimited donuts?” suggested Jester. “That would be a good change.”   
  
“What? Free donuts? That’s your big life change?” asked Beau incredulously.    
  
“Well, she just said ‘a change to our current circumstances,’ and my circumstance is that I didn’t have any breakfast and I AM HUNGRY.”   
  
“I think we’re supposed to think a little bigger than that,” said Fjord.    
  
“All right, well, what’s  _ your _ big change you wanna make, then?” demanded Jester.   
  
Fjord shrugged. “Get a job, maybe.”   
  
Jester rolled her eyes. “ _ Boring _ . My answer is better.”    
  
“And then move to… I dunno. Somewhere near the ocean,” Fjord continued.    
  
“What kind of job?” asked Beau.    
  
Fjord shrugged again. “I like boats?”   
  
Oh god, she’d been right on the money about the sailing-on-weekends thing. Except not so much about the father thing, apparently?    
  
“What, like a pirate?” said Jester, apparently seriously.    
  
“No, like… I don’t know. I don’t know. I’m just trying to answer the question!”   
  
“What about you, Beau?” asked Jester. “What change would you make?”   
  
“Get my dad off my back,” said Beau immediately. “Move into my own place.”   
  
“... You don’t like your dad?”   
  
“He’s a fucking asshole.”   
  
“Oh,” said Jester. “Huh. ...My dad might be an asshole, but I don’t think so? Maybe he is though. He did leave my mom, and she’s the most wonderful person ever, so maybe he was an asshole? Oh!” she exclaimed. “I just thought of a change I would like to make, that isn’t donuts! I would like to make friends!” She beamed at them. “Because, you know, I just moved here, and even before when I lived with my mom I didn’t really get to go outside so much, so I didn’t really have many friends, and maybe now that I’m here and I can go outside and stuff, I can make friends maybe!”   
  
There seemed to be some weird statements buried in there. Weird even by the blue-haired girl’s evidently broad standards of normalcy. Beau was opening her mouth to ask a clarifying question or two, when a commotion erupted from the other side of the classroom.    
  
Caleb, the small skinny scruffy one, had pushed up out of his chair, knocking it to the floor. He was standing over Molly, glaring, his face bright red and his fists clenched.    
  
“Who are you??” he demanded. “Why are you asking me these things?”   
  
Veth was quietly tugging at his elbow. “Sit down, Caleb, it’s okay.”   
  
“I don’t have to answer  _ any _ of your questions,” Caleb hissed at Molly. “This has  _ nothing _ to do with why we are here. You don’t have any right to–”   
  
Allura came over. “Caleb. Caleb, it’s all right.”   
  
Caleb spun on her. “It  _ is not all right. Nothing is all right. I don’t know these people, I don’t know any of you, why should I talk to you about anything?” _ He jerked his arm from Veth’s grasp and stalked out of the room.    
  
After a moment of silence, Veth said softly, “I’ll go get him back.”    
  
“Just, please remind him that he does need to remain on school grounds? And ask him if he needs anything,” murmured Allura, picking up the knocked over chair.   
  
Veth nodded and slipped out of the room, glaring at Molly as she passed him. Beau caught the look: it was kind of a scary look, coming out of that heavily shrouded face. Molly seemed to be comparatively unphased, though the smirk on his face did look a little bit fixed to Beau. He shrugged, then scooted his chair over to join Yasha and Caduceus.    
  
“Shit,” she muttered. “What was that about?”   
  
Jester was wide-eyed. “Do you think he’s okay?”   
  
Fjord shrugged. “He’s a mess. Aren’t we all?”   
  
Jester silently fished a pen and a notebook out of the flowered backpack beside her chair. She began doodling in it. Beau wanted to peek, but couldn’t see without making it obvious. Probably not dicks this time, she guessed.    
  
“So,” she said, after a moment. “What else are we supposed to be talking about?”   
  
“Uh…. what we want out of these sessions, I think. Meetings. Whatever.” Fjord said.   
  
“My answer’s kind of the same as the first one. I want my dad off my back. If doing this is going to calm him down, then mission accomplished, I guess.”   
  
“How about you, Jester?”   
  
“My answer is also the same,” she said, without looking up from her drawing.    
  
“Donuts?”   
  
“Friends.”   
  
“Oh.”   
  
“Friends would be nice,” said Fjord thoughtfully. “I just moved here too. I don’t really know anyone.”   
  
Beau groaned internally, because this was  _ obviously _ the signal to offer her own friendship to these two weirdos, but she couldn’t for the life of her imagine introducing them to Tori and the gang. Like, what the fuck would they all even say to each other?    
  
“I’ll be your friend, Fjord!” said Jester, looking up from her notebook.    
  
“All right,” said Fjord awkwardly, and Beau cringed for all of them.   
  
“Okay, great. So… last question.” She glanced hurriedly at the board. “What skills do we have to offer the group? … What the fuck does that even mean?”   
  
“I’m good at drawing,” offered Jester. “And piano!”   
  
“I… don’t think I have any skills,” said Fjord.    
  
“I’m pretty much just good at pissing people off,” said Beau.   
  
They all looked at each other.    
  
“Well,” said Fjord, “I guess it’s no wonder we’re all here, then.”   



	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (oh man, I realized I had somehow mentally converted 'Tori', the cannonical name of Beau's first love, into 'Tracey', the name of the ditsy persona she adopts to help the M9 steal the Ball Eater. Oops. Sorry all. TORI, NOT TRACEY. I fixed it.)

So, okay, it maybe hadn’t been the actual worst four hours she’d ever been through in her life, thought Beau, as she trudged to the bus stop. It could’ve been worse. A lot worse. There had been moments that were cringey as fuck, and she was still pretty sure she hated everyone in the group, except maybe Jester, whose weirdness was oddly appealing, and possibly Yasha, although the jury would have to stay out on that until she found out what exactly Yasha’s deal was. Hotness wasn’t everything, not even to Beau, for whom a pretty face and a bulging pair of biceps could make up for quite a lot in the personality department.    
  
She was still mad as hell that she had to get up at godawful o’clock every Saturday for the next few months to spend time getting reformed with these clowns, but all in all, it had probably been a solid decision over being shipped off to some hell hole of a military boarding academy.    
  
She slumped into the bench to wait for her bus, missing her car with an intensity that was almost physically painful. Damn, she’d loved that car.    
  
Part of her dad’s retribution for Beau’s “betrayal of the family” had been to confiscate her beloved, lovingly restored old Thunderbird, Thaddeus, and resell it to pay for the court fees and to make the first payment on her “reimbursement” of him for the merchandise she’d stolen and resold. It had broken Beau’s heart to see her car go off with some random internet asshole, but she couldn’t deny that some of the money to buy it and fix it up had come from selling high-end Lionett wine under the table at a steep discount. She hated her dad for hitting her where he’d known it would hurt, but the man was smart: that car was Beau’s freedom and pride, and selling it had brought her lower than pretty much anything else he’d done or said since she’d been caught.    
  
She boarded the bus, which seemed to be driven by the same lanky Midwestern-looking guy who had been driving when she’d arrived in the morning. Long shift. She nodded at him, tapped her card, and collapsed into a seat.    
  
She checked her phone. Nothing from Tori. Beau started four different text messages to her, discarded them all as being stupid or needy or desperate or otherwise not right, and stuffed her phone back in her pocket.    
  
God, she was tired. Being a reformed juvenile delinquent for an entire Saturday morning really took it out of you. She leaned her head against the cool window and closed her eyes.    
  
“Hey there. Hey there, kid. This yer stop?”    
  
Beau jolted awake at the sound of bus driver’s friendly call back to her. Fuck! She’d fallen asleep. Blearily she looked out: yes, he’d pulled over at the stop closest to her house. Damn, bus guy had a good memory, as well as a Midwestern accent flat enough to level houses. She peered at his name tag: ‘P. Sol.’ She muttered a thank you to him, and stumbled out of the bus.    
  
TJ was outside when she got home, playing on the wide expanse of lawn in front of the big house, riding in circles in his little pedal car. It figured that the 4 year-old golden son, too young to have angered his father yet, had his own little car while his 17 year-old screw-up sister got hers confiscated, thought Beau, and snorted as a mental image of herself bumming a ride to the bar in her little brother’s pedal car flashed in her head.   
  
“Hey kid. What’s up.”   
  
“Hi Beau!” piped TJ. “Will you play race track with me?”   
  
“Maybe later.” She had to take a nap and eat something before she’d be good for anything, including making loud vrooming noises for her little brother’s satisfaction. “Are mom and dad home?”   
  
“Daddy had to go to work. Mama’s home though.”    
  
“Cool. Thanks, kid.” She ruffled his curls and went inside.    
  
She tried to be as quiet as possible as she slipped through the front hallway and into the kitchen, and began rummaging for something to eat. She’d pulled out the makings of a sandwich when her mother’s voice behind her startled her.    
  
“Beau, you’re home.”   
  
“Jesus, mom. Don’t sneak up on me like that!”   
  
“How was it?” Her mother’s arms were folded across her chest. She was still in her pajamas, the expensive silk set Beau’s father had given her for her birthday. It was rare for her not to be dressed, made-up, and perfectly coiffed at this hour, even on the weekend: Beau’s father had strong opinions about “looking sloppy”.    
  
“Are you sick, mom?”   
  
“No, just…. Sleeping in a bit.” Her mother looked guilty. “Your father left early this morning for the warehouse. How was the group?”   
  
“Shitty,” said Beau. “I know you and dad think I’m basically the worst kid who ever walked the earth, but some of these guys make me look like TJ. Hard drugs and gang stuff. Pretty sure they’re going to be a terrible influence on me. I’ll probably be addicted to heroin and turning tricks at truck stops by May.”    
  
Beau’s mother looked horrified. 

  
“Oh jeez, mom, that was a _joke_. The group’s okay. The kids are weird. The supervisor’s weird too. It’s going to be boring as shit and I’m going to do it anyway so that Dad will calm down. Okay?”   
  
Her mother relaxed, but still looked worried. “I wish you wouldn’t joke about this, Beau. You got _arrested_. You’ve been _stealing_ from your own _family._ This is serious stuff. Your father just wants you to realize that. We both want the best for you, Beau. We want you to… to get back on track.”  
  
“No, what you want is for me to magically turn into a nice obedient little straight girl with shiny hair and perfect grades who will get a degree in _accounting_ or something and then work at the business for free until Dad decides it’s time for me to marry a nice rich white boy and make babies.”  
  
“ _Beau_ …”  
  
“Come on, mom, you know it’s true.”  
  
“You always think the worst of your father. He’s worked so hard for everything we have–”  
  
“Yeah, well, so have we! We’ve _all_ worked hard for what he has. And now he wants to pretend that we’re like some fancy multi-generation wine family from fucking Napa Valley or whatever, so we all have to turn into model minority faux-WASPS and act like we’ve always had money, and here his dyke daughter is messing it up by running with the wrong crowd and getting arrested. I _get it, mom._ I just don’t like it, okay? I don’t like pretending. I’m not perfect, he’s not perfect, none of us are fucking perfect. We don’t fit in this stupid box he wants to put us in, and you know it!”  
  
Beau’s mother was silent, her lips pressed tightly together.  
  
“Jeez, mom, I can _hear_ you counting to ten in your head. Just say whatever you want to say, okay? I’m not dad, I’m not gonna hit you for disagreeing with me.”  
  
“Beau! That only happened once!”  
  
“Sure. Every other time is an accident, right? And he’s always _really_ sorry afterward.”  
  
“Your father is a good man who loves us, Beau. He is doing his best. You make it _so hard_ for him – ”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, I know, it’s all my fault. Everything’s my fault. I get it. This family would be perfect if I would just get with the program. Or better yet, disappear.”  
  
“ _Beau_ …”  
  
Beau couldn’t take any more. She grabbed two slices of bread and pushed past her mother, out of the kitchen and down the hall and up the stairs. She needed a shower, and a nap. Then she needed to find Tori and settle shit with her. After that, she needed to get some stupid homework done, so that after _that_ she could spend all day tomorrow working at the warehouse. Then, if she was really, really lucky, she might find an hour or two in there to go down to the boxing studio and persuade Dairon to beat the shit out of her until she felt better.   
  
God, her _life_ right now. Why was everything so stupid and boring and hard? Why did _everyone_ seem to hate her?  
  
The bread wasn’t a meal, but it settled her stomach, and the hot water of the shower felt fantastic on her bare skin. Toweling off, Beau stood naked in front of the steamed-over mirror for a moment, staring at the foggy brown oval of her face. With a forefinger, she traced a smiley face where her own eyes and mouth were. Then she scrubbed it out. “Suck it up, chump,” she whispered to the smudge in the mirror that was her own tired face.  
  
She had _just_ crawled into between the sheets, and was settling in for the nap that she hoped was going to make all the difference in her mood, when her phone buzzed on the nightstand.   
  
It wasn’t Tori, but Jason, owner of the bar where Tori worked.   
  
_hey Beau, have you heard from tori?_  
  
_Not today why?_ _  
__  
__she hasnt shown up for her shift._ _Is she sick_?  
  
Oh, fuck.   
  
_Oh yeah she said she felt weird yesterday. Ill check on her._  
  
_Tell her to call me please. She cant just not show up like this._ _  
__  
_ Fuckity fuck fuck. Tori was doing it again.   
  
Groaning, Beau sat up, and let the sheets fall away from her. It was time to stop stalling and text Tori.   
  
_Hey T. I know you’re mad as fuck at me. But Jason called me and he wants to know where you are. Are you okay?_  
  
Sent. Beau curled back up in bed, staring at her phone, willing Tori to text her back, willing her to be reasonable for once.   
  
A little row of dots appeared beneath Beau’s text, and then disappeared, and then reappeared again. Then disappeared again. Then nothing.   
  
Great. She was alive, she was still mad, but she hadn’t blocked Beau’s number or thrown her phone in the river. Beau sent another message.  
  
_Can we talk? Where are you?_  
  
Long pause.   
  
_Please Tori?_ _  
__  
_ Finally, two words appeared with a little buzz: _my place_.  
  
From Tori, that was as good as a royal summons. So much for a nap. Beau heaved herself out of bed, and stumbled to her closet.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CN for a couple of slurs used in this chapter: 'Pinoy', used by non-Filipinos, is often considered a slur, and 'tortilleras' is derogatory Spanish for lesbians. Apologies to anyone who is bothered by these terms: as you may have noticed, the language Beau and her friends use is not always polite. (My headcannon is that in a modern magicless AU, the Lionetts are Filipino-American, and Beau and TJ are first-generation.)

It was a loooooong bus ride to Tori’s. The Lionett house was in the ‘nicest’ part of town, where everyone had sweeping expanses of lawns and perfectly manicured hedges, where the windows were never broken and the cars were never rusty, and no one ever played the radio too loudly or had noisy arguments or celebrations on their sagging front porches. Tori had laughed out loud when she found out where Beau lived, called her a bougie little Pinoy, and positively refused ever to set foot within a mile of Beau’s house.    
  
When Beau had Thaddeus-the-Thunderbird, getting to Tori’s wasn’t a problem, a quick twenty minutes on the freeway with the windows down and the radio up high, her stomach clenching in anticipation. Now, on the bus, Beau’s trek to Tori’s took almost an hour, as the bus snaked its way through downtown and across the river, picking up more and more people as it went, until Beau finally gave up her seat to a mom with a clinging toddler, slightly less out of courtesy than because standing up meant nobody’s crotch was going to be in her face.    
  
At last, the corner stop near Tori’s street came within view, and Beau squeezed her way through the other passengers to the front exit. She did a double take as she realized that the bus driver seemed to be P. Sol again, although this route was a completely different one from her trip to school this morning.    
  
He caught her eye as she hopped off the bus, giving her a friendly nod and a chipper “you take care now!” She nodded back, puzzled. The guy must drive all damn day.   
  
Tori lived in one half of a duplex with an ever-rotating cast of roommates, plus their assorted hookups, significant others, couch-surfing cousins, and one-time crashers. Beau had long ago given up trying to keep track of names or relationships. As soon as one person had been around long enough for her to have a couple of conversations with them, they would disappear in the night, and if Beau asked about them, Tori would just shrug and say there had been ‘drama’, and she didn’t know where they’d moved to. Occasionally, one of them would be cool, but if Beau sat too long talking with anyone, especially if they were female, that person became an almost immediate target for Tori’s considerable seduction skills. Tori didn’t do jealousy: she simply neutralized any possible competition by sleeping with them before Beau did. Not that Beau wanted to sleep with most of them, but it was weirdly reassuring to know that Tori noticed and cared where Beau’s attention went, and took steps to keep it on herself.    
  
Which, yes, in her heart-of-hearts, Beau knew was probably several different flavors of fucked up.    
  
But Tori was witty and loud and tough and sexy and fearless, and could beat Beau at arm wrestling at least forty percent of the time. Her house was always full of music and booze and mess and people sitting around laughing and arguing and getting wasted, and it was always full of Tori’s own particular style of chaotic energy. After the oppressive quiet and cleanliness of her father’s house, Tori’s place was always a relief.    
  
The gate of the chain-link fence was open when Beau arrived, and a big guy she vaguely recognized – Elijah? Esteban? Something with an E, at any rate – was turning hotdogs on a rusty grill in the front yard. Two other men sat nearby on lawn chairs, holding beers, and turned to look at her with the vague interest as she approached.    
  
“Heyyyy, it’s you! Welcome back!” Escobar-Eliezer-Efraim called, as Beau walked up the weedy path.    
  
“Hey! Yeah, it’s me.”   
  
“Our girl’s been waiting for you.”   
  
“Really?”

  
“Yeah, she came out a minute ago and asked if anyone had seen you yet. Tried to act like she didn’t care, called you a bunch of names, and went back inside. You know Tori.”  
  
“Oh. Shit. Yeah, I had to take the bus, it took ages.”  
  
“What happened to that old T-bird of yours?”   
  
“Had to sell it.”  
  
“ _Pobrecita._ Want a hot dog?”  
  
Beau accepted the hot dog with gratitude, and scarfed it down standing there on the sidewalk, burning her tongue slightly and not caring. As she thanked him and went into the house, she caught the word ‘tortilleras’ behind her, and exclamations of laughter, and Edgar-Emanuel telling them all to shut up.   
  
Tori was on the couch in the main room, her head in the lap of a girl who Beau definitely didn’t recognize. Tori’s cascade of curls was spread across the girl’s bare legs, and her eyes were closed as the girl drew her fingers gently through the small tangles. Beau recognized the slightly worshipful look on the unknown girl’s face: everyone who came into the laser focus of Tori’s attention and charm tended to have that look. At first, anyway.   
  
Beau didn’t stand on ceremony. She went over to the couch, ignoring the death-glare that was turned on her by Tori’s adoring acolyte, and snapped her fingers in front of Tori’s closed eyes.   
  
“Wake up, T. I’m here. Let’s talk.”  
  
The unknown girl glared. Beau waited. Slowly Tori opened her eyes and looked up at Beau through the long dark lashes that Beau still, reluctantly, found mesmerizing. After a long, cat-like blink, Tori spoke.   
  
“Who says I want to talk to you, you traitorous piece of shit?”  
  
“You did. You told me to come.”  
  
“No, I told you where I was. No one told you to come here. You can turn right around and go back to that fucking mansion of yours, _Beauregard._ ” Her voice was lazy and deep. It sounded like she’d been smoking. Goddamit, why was that rasp so sexy?  
  
“Should I go?” said the unknown girl uncertainly.  
  
“No, stay, you have good hands,” said Tori, closing her eyes again.   
  
“Yes, go,” snapped Beau. The girl stayed where she was, hand paused in Tori’s hair, eyes darting back and forth between Beau and Tori.   
  
Beau sighed. “Look, I don’t know who you are, but Tori is using you. Partly to piss me off, and partly as a hairbrush. If that’s your kink, and you want to sit here while she cusses me out for leaving her in jail over night, which _wasn’t_ my fault by the way, and then watch while we make up and then go upstairs and fuck, feel free, but I promise you that you’re going to become extremely irrelevant in the next thirty seconds, because Tori doesn’t actually like her head touched when she’s mad, and I don’t care one way or another.”  
  
The girl tried to stare Beau down for all of ten seconds. Beau stared back. The girl left, looking pissed off. Beau watched her go.   
  
“Cute,” she said to Tori. “What’s her name?”  
  
Tori was looking at Beau with a combination of anger and – if Beau wasn’t mistaken – a tiny bit of secret amusement. “Hell if I know,” she said. “Doesn’t matter. _You left me, you bitch.”_ _  
__  
_ Beau sat down beside her on the couch, the springs creaking. “I know. I’m sorry. I swear, I literally begged my dad to bail you out too. I _begged_ him. I don’t ask him for anything, you know that. And he said he hoped you stayed there so you’d be out of my life.”  
  
“Your dad’s an asshole.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“And the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”  
  
“I know. I’m sorry. I tried to call you, you know?”  
  
“I didn’t want to talk to you.”  
  
“I know,” Beau said a third time.   
  
“Yeah, yeah, you know everything, you snotty rich brat.”   
  
They sat in silence, looking at each other. Finally Tori sighed.   
  
“Come here, you little shit,” she said, and held out her arms. Beau sank into them gratefully, stretching out along the narrow couch and tangling her legs with Tori’s, her face sinking into the long smooth curve of Tori’s neck and shoulder. Tori was making it so easy this time. She must have missed Beau.   
  
“This isn’t me forgiving you, you know”, said Tori, as her long, knowing fingers undid the elastic that held Beau’s topknot in place, letting Beau’s hair spill out to mingle with her own curls.   
  
“Okay.”  
  
“I’m serious. I’m not going to forget this. Our plans are _fucked_ now, you know that, right?”  
  
“I know,” said Beau for a fourth time. Their scheme to sell enough of Beau’s father’s wine under the table to the bar where Tori worked had been the cornerstone of the castle-in-the-air they had built during the months since they’d met. They had been going to escape: Beau from her father’s house, and Tori from the falling-apart duplex, and go to the coast together. They’d enroll in community college, maybe start a bar of their own. Unspoken: they might get married, when Beau was old enough, which would solve Tori’s green card problems. Part of Beau had never really believed it was going to happen, because she just couldn’t picture Tori committing to anything, not really. But Tori had talked about it enough times in the early hours of the morning, when they lay naked and sleepy together in her bed, that Beau had begun, cautiously, to trust.   
  
“We could just go, you know,” whispered Beau. “We could make it work.”   
  
“Yeah, right,” said Tori. “It’s a fucking miracle I didn’t get deported. You know that, right? It takes _money_ to be safe, Beau. You don’t know, cuz you’re a stupid kid and you’ve had it so damn easy your whole life–”  
  
Beau lifted her head off of Tori’s chest and kissed her, hard, partly to shut her up, and partly because the magic of Tori’s scent – smoke and sweat and jasmine and lemons and sex – was doing its usual work on Beau’s attention span. She tried to make it a good kiss: the kind of forceful, take-charge kiss that seemed to make Tori forget that Beau was underage, middle-class, and hopelessly naive, at least by Tori’s standards. Beau freed her arm from beneath her own body and pushed a hand up underneath the soft cotton of Tori’s shirt. Tori’s skin was warm and smooth, her ribs running beneath Beau’s fingers like the spines of Beau’s favorite books, the ones that told of adventure and risk and great deeds in the wide world. She bit down on Tori’s lip as her hand found Tori’s breast, and Tori moaned a little.   
  
Beau grinned slightly into Tori’s kiss. “I guess you’re not _that_ mad, huh T?”  
  
“Shut up, you stupid –”   
  
Beau kissed her again. _Just stupid enough for you,_ she thought, and then pushed away all thoughts for a while. 


	5. Chapter 5

Beau didn’t go home that night. She knew she should; she knew that with every hour that passed after she should have been home for dinner, her mother would grow more worried, her father more dangerously furious, and TJ more confused and anxious to please in the atmosphere of a gathering storm. Her phone buzzed over and over, and she ignored it, knowing it would be her mother, then her mother again, then her father, and then her mother once more with a final desperate plea.    
  
After the third ring, she kicked her phone under Tori’s dresser, where it stayed for the rest of the night.    
  
She and Tori and the starts-with-an-E guy (she was  _ almost _ sure it was Emilio?) and another maybe-roommate, an older woman whose name seemed to be Janet, smoked a bowl together and ate stale chips and watched wrestling on TV and laughed at nothing. When twilight fell and people started to turn up with drinks and chatter and takeout, Beau retreated to the corner of the sagging couch, nursing a beer, pleasantly buzzed and appreciating the way the noise and bustle and the mild high helped to drown out the thoughts of tomorrow, of the homework that should be done right now, of the questions she would face all too soon.    
  
Somehow they all ended up at a bar: not Tori’s bar, but another one of the many almost indistinguishable dark sticky-countered dives that Beau had come to feel comfortable in. This one had a pool table, and Beau managed to win fifty bucks off of a couple of drunk guys who didn’t believe that a teenage girl could’ve kicked their asses blindfolded. When she won the second game even faster, one of the guys started to look pissed off enough that Beau thought there might be a fight, but then Tori swooped in and flirted and teased and worked her hot-girl magic, and somehow the guy ended up buying them all a round instead. The gleam in his eye said he was hoping he’d go home with Tori, and Beau felt a glow of satisfaction when she saw that Tori was bored by him.    
  
“Take me home,” Tori whispered into Beau’s ear, her hand reaching under the hightop to brush the inside of Beau’s thigh. So they got the bartender, who seemed to know Tori well, to call them a cab, and escaped into the night with the disgruntled hollers of the bad-at-pool guys behind them, yelling at them to come back.    
  
In the cab, Tori climbed into Beau’s lap, her curls brushing against Beau’s drink-flushed cheeks. Her lips were warm and tasted of sweat and tequila, and by the time they pulled up to Tori’s Beau was so dazed with Tori’s kisses that she handed over her fifty bucks and told the driver to keep the change. Laughing, Tori pulled her inside and up the stairs, and kept Beau busy enough that she didn’t have to think about the phone lying silent, battery dead, underneath the dresser.    
  
Morning came too soon, piercingly bright between the thin, dusty red curtains that hung in Tori’s window. Beau crept from Tori’s bed at 8 am, head pounding, knowing that if she didn’t get a move on, she would arrive at work not only hung over but late as well. She rummaged through Tori’s dresser drawers, hoping to find a clean shirt that was Beau-shaped and not Tori-shaped, since her own shirt from yesterday stank hopelessly of cigarette smoke and sweat and booze. She finally found a button-down that had probably been a uniform from one of Tori’s waitressing jobs – it had “Sergio’s Pizzeria” stitched in green on the front pocket – and was putting it on when Tori rolled over and looked up at her with deliciously smudged and sleepy eyes.    
  
“Where’re you going?” she mumbled. “I wanted to get pancakes.”   
  
“I can’t, I have to work.”   
  
“Oh god, Beau. Don’t tell me you’re still going to spend every Sunday working for your dad.”   
  
“I  _ have  _ to, T.”   
  
“No, you don’t. You can tell the asshole to go fuck himself. Come back to bed.”    
  
God, it was tempting. It was  _ so _ tempting, with Tracey lying there all naked and warm and smiling up at her. But Beau knew what would follow: the police ‘welfare check’ that would arrive on Tori’s doorstep within twenty-four hours of a minor going ‘missing’ at her older girlfriend’s, the ride back to her father’s, the arguments, the threats, the possible legal action against Tori. If Beau left now, she would be on time for work, and she could tell her father she’d stayed with a friend to work on a school project, and he’d know she was lying but wouldn’t be able to prove it.    
  
“I gotta go. I’ll text you later.” She fished the dead phone out from underneath the dust cavern beneath the dresser, kissed Tori, and left quickly, before Tori could pull her back into bed.    
  
Damned if it wasn’t P. Sol again driving the bus, though this route was yet another one from the previous two she’d seen him driving. Beau did a double-take as he pulled up to her stop and greeted her with a cheerful wave.    
  
“Hey there. You look like you’ve had a rough night there, kid!”   
  
Beau put a self-conscious hand to her hair. She probably should’ve borrowed a comb from Tori. “Kinda. Hey, uh, this is the 73, isn’t it?”   
  
“Sure is!”   
  
“... Do you also drive the 82 on Saturdays?”   
  
“Oh no, that’d be my brother.”   
  
“Huh. You sure look alike.”   
  


“Yup!” said P. Sol cheerfully. “That’s what we hear! So, you getting on or what?”   
  
Beau climbed aboard.    
  
“Where ya headed this morning, kid?”   
  
“Work. My dad has a business.”   
  
“What kind of business, if y’don’t mind my asking?”   
  
“Wine. Manufacturing and distribution both. I help with shipping and stuff.”   
  
“Ah. I’m more of a beer guy, myself.”   
  
There wasn’t much Beau could think of to say to that. She nodded vaguely and curled up in a window seat, wishing she’d drunk a little less and slept a little more last night.    
  
It was twenty minutes into downtown, and then another twenty minutes on a different line and a longish walk to the warehouse that served as cave, lab, and distribution center for Lionett Wines. The air was on the chilly side, and Beau sped up her walking pace, missing Thaddeus-the-Thunderbird like hell and also wishing she’d borrowed a sweatshirt from Tori. The temperature inside the warehouse was always cold, necessary to the slow fermentation and aging of the wines. As a child in the summer, it had been wonderful to go from the blazing dry heat outside into the cool darkness of the warehouse, to go around from cask to cask with her father as he drew samples to test and explained things to her. It had made her feel important and special, particularly when he spoke to her in Tagalog, which few of his employees understood – there wasn’t much of a Pinoy community out here – and told her how important it was that she understand all of this, since one day she would need to be in charge, since he had no son to pass the business to.  _ Ikaw ang magiging tagapagmana ko, Beauregard, _ he had said to her then, and she had believed him, taking tiny sips of the wines he drew for her and practicing rolling it around her tongue, trying to taste what he did, trying to understand.    
  
She couldn’t pinpoint when it had all gone wrong. Sometime around the birth of TJ, probably; but the seeds of conflict with her father had always been there, in her femaleness, in her emerging queerness, in her reluctance to fully honor and appreciate the hallowed, patriarchal traditions and mysteries of oenology. These days, she was mostly relegated to the bookkeeping work, staring at Excel spreadsheets for hours, or printing off reams of labels, or checking inventory. She was far away from where the ‘real work’ of the business was done, down in the subterranean depths of the warehouse among the gleaming steel and soft oak that held her family’s slowly fermenting fortune. When she was a kid, her father had introduced her proudly when he took potential distributors on tours: now, she knew to stay out of the way. She didn’t fit the image he was trying to sell.    
  
Someone was sitting on the steps of the back door to the warehouse. A kid in a green shirt. Vaguely familiar. He looked up as Beau approached, and smiled hesitantly, and waved.    
  
“Hey, Beauregard,” said Fjord. “Uh... Do you think you could get me a job?”


	6. Chapter 6

  
Beau stared at him. “... Fjord??”  
  
“Yeah. You remember. From the support group? Yesterday?”  
  
“I know who you _are_. I just don’t understand why you’re _here_.”  
  
“I’m looking for a job.”  
  
“Yeah, you said that. How the hell did you find me?”  
  
“Well, you said your name was Beauregard Lionett, and you said your dad owned a business and you worked for him. I did some googling and… Well, I dunno, it wasn’t that hard to figure out? I mean, was it supposed to be a secret?”  
  
Beau stared at him, trying to decide if he was an actual stalker, or just deeply weird. He looked so clean-cut and innocent, standing there all nicely dressed and hair combed and everything (although she noticed the outfit seemed to be the same one he’d worn yesterday, and now she was positive he’d ironed it).   
  
“I didn’t know you’d be here, though,” said Fjord. “I was just hoping that maybe if I mentioned your name and said I was a friend of yours, that might give me a leg up, so to speak. I’m trying a lot of places, but I don’t have much of a resume.”  
  
Beau didn’t know what to say to this. Did Fjord actually think they were friends? After one morning of forced conversation in a classroom?   
  
“I thought I might try Cad’s family’s place too, I did some looking and I think they own Clay’s Garden Center? And I think there’s also some kind of funeral home too, although it’s kind of hard to tell… do you know what ‘natural burial services’ are? I can’t tell if that means biodegradable coffins or, like, straight in the ground, or some kind of fancy cremation, or what... . But anyway that’s what they do. I figured I’d try here first, though. I don’t know much about plants. Or dead bodies. Or wine, come to think of it, but this place is easier to get to on the bus, so –”  
  
“Fjord. _Fjord._ Shut up for a second, okay?”  
  
Fjord shut up.  
  
“I… oh man. Fjord, what made you think I could get you a job?”  
  
“Well… We’re all supposed to be helping each other, right? All of us in the group?”  
  
Beau stared at him. He looked completely earnest.   
  
“I mean, i f you can’t help me, or you don’t want to, no worries, I get it, but I figured it couldn’t hurt to ask.”  
  
“It’s… it’s not that I don’t want to, Fjord.” She did not want to. “But my dad… he doesn’t exactly like me very much right now. In fact, he kind of hates me. You’d probably stand a better chance of getting a job here if you told him you’d punched me in the face.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“... Don’t actually punch me, Fjord.”  
  
“I wasn’t going to.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
“I know what sarcasm is, Beau.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
They stared at each other.  
  
 _Lord, give me the confidence of a straight white boy_ , thought Beau. “All right, all right. You might as well come in, I guess. If you’re serious about wanting a job here, though, _don’t_ tell my dad where you met me, okay? You know me from school, that’s all. We’re not friends, you’re just really really curious about wine, and you happened to hear that I was related to Thoreau Lionett of Lionett Wines, and you’re a big fan somehow… no, wait, that makes you sound like a teen alcoholic. Shit. Um. Okay, maybe tell him you’re doing a science project for school on malolactic fermentation. Or… no, wait, maybe you’re taking AP Earth Science and you’re studying how the local geology and climatology affects _terroir_ , and –””  
  
“Affects… what?”  
  
“ _Terroir_. It’s the taste profile of wine produced in a particular microbiome.” Fjord looked unenlightened by this. “Like, how the local weather and soil and stuff affects how the wine turns out?”  
  
“... You can taste the weather in wine?”   
  
“Yeah, kind of.” Beau pressed her palm into her forehead. “Jesus. Okay, just say… say you’ve grown up seeing your parents drink Lionett wine on the most special occasions. Say you associate the label with joy and celebration and prosperity and happy family times. Say your first taste of a domestic champagne was Lionett blanc de noir Prosecco at your aunt’s wedding last year, and you’re never going to look twice at a bottle of Korbels again, and you’ll do anything in the world to stack crates and sanitize siphon pumps at the best wine cave in Exandria County.”   
  
“... Damn.” Fjord looked deeply impressed, and a little overwhelmed. “Uh. I don’t know if I can remember all that.”  
  
“Okay, okay, then don’t try to bullshit him too much. My dad’s an asshole, but he’s not dumb. He’ll know if you try to fake it.”  
  
“Okay. Got it. …. Oh, man. Thanks, Beau. I really appreciate this. I can’t tell you how much. I’m kind of… not in a great place right now, and I want to get out, but I have to make my own way. And I don’t know anyone and I don’t even know where to start, really. I don’t mind hard work, I _want_ to work, I just need a chance, and you helping me means the world–”  
  
“Yes! There! That’s it! Say that. But do it with that catalogue model white boy picket fence smiley thing you do. He’s big into the American Dream, he’ll eat that shit up.”   
  
Fjord held the door open for Beau; not in a douchey faux-chivalry way, or she would’ve decked him right there, but in the way that people did when they were the kind of person who held the door for everyone out of habit. He did look sincerely grateful.   
  
It occurred to Beau for the first time that she had no idea why exactly Fjord was in the group. He’d somehow managed not to say, not in the whole of yesterday morning. There was something about his clean, sincere, upstanding-citizen schtick that made it hard to imagine him committing the kinds of petty crimes that seemed to have landed most of the rest of them in Saturday delinquent-rehab. He just didn’t look like the type. But you couldn’t go by appearances: Beau knew she herself had one of the world’s worst cases of resting-bitch-face even when she was trying her hardest to be nice. For all she knew, Fjord’s J Crew looks were the pretty wrapping paper on a package that included animal abuse and compulsive arson. Or worse.  
  
Suddenly, she realized she _wanted_ her dad to hire this weird kid. Even if it meant that Fjord turned out to be a teenage con artist, or a pyromaniac, or whatever. In fact, she kind of hoped he _would_ pull some kind of a stunt on her dad. Because then she wouldn’t be alone. She wouldn’t be the world’s worst teenager and a traitor to all that was good and noble in the world. She’d just be another adolescent opportunist with low moral fibre who’d pulled the wool over the eyes of Thoreau Lionett, a man who paid his employees too little, voted with his wallet, and consistently took his family for granted.   
  
She even found herself smiling a little at the thought, as she turned a corner and came face-to-face with Thoreau Lionett in the flesh.   
  
He did not look happy to see her.   



	7. Chapter 7

“Beauregard,” said Thoreau Lionett, his voice tight and clipped with displeasure. “I see you’re alive after all. I was just about to call the police.”   
  
“Because I’m two minutes late for work? That’s a little overkill, even for you, Dad.”   
  
“ _ Because _ you disappeared from our home yesterday at 2 PM with no word to anyone, and didn’t accept your mother’s calls or mine. How were we to know that you weren’t dead in a ditch? I suppose if you’d been arrested again, I would have received some kind of call from the police, but from my own daughter, not a word –”   
  
“Oh, don’t worry, Dad, if I get arrested again, I know not to call you. Not worth it to the business, bailing me out twice in one fiscal quarter, right? At least, not if they set the bail higher than the difference in the wages you’d have to pay a real worker. Gotta think of the investors, right dad?”   
  
She saw his jaw and his fist clench, and smoothly stepped to one side to draw his attention to Fjord. “But hey,, let’s not air the dirty laundry. I have to introduce you to someone. This is Fjord. Fjord… uh...”   
  
Fjord stepped forward into the gap, smooth as a lake in summer. “Fjord Stone, sir. It’s an honor to meet you.” He held out a hand, and Thoreau took it automatically. Beau was oddly impressed. Fjord was holding himself straighter. He looked older, somehow, and his posture alone seemed to radiate a combination of respect and confidence.   
  
“Ah. And are you an… associate of my daughter’s?” Thoreau was looking at him with deep suspicion, even with his hand still in Fjord’s. It looked like Fjord gave a damn good handshake. Which was something Beau had yet to master; she always went too strong and ended up making people wince.    
  
“Oh, Beau and I have hardly spoken before today. We go to the same school, but I’m a senior. I’m afraid I’m presuming on a very slight acquaintance with her to come and introduce myself to you, sir. You see, I’m looking for a job.”   
  
Shit. Beau was even more impressed. Fjord sounded like a walking talking cover letter, except somehow not at all stilted.    
  
“I’m interested in the microeconomics of small businesses, and when I research local success stories, sir, Lionett Wines comes up again and again. I’m just a kid, but I’m serious about making my way in the world, and I want to learn from the best how it’s done. I know you started this business with nothing but determination and sweat equity, and that’s what I have to offer. Could you see your way to letting a hard-working kid get a toe in the door here? I’d be immensely grateful for any opportunity to learn from you.”   
  
_ Don’t laugh don’t laugh don’t laugh _ though Beau frantically, clamping her lips. But god  _ damn _ Fjord was good at this. He was pitching it perfectly: just the right mixture of pride and ass-kissery, and with that sincere look on his face he could’ve stepped right out of some newspaper article on “Teen Tycoons: The Future Business Leaders of America.”   
  
And it was working. Beau could see her father’s suspicion softening as he looked at Fjord.    
  
“Well. I can see you’re a different type from the sort of young person my daughter usually runs around with. Do you have a resume?”   
  
“Of course.” From a bag over his shoulder, Fjord pulled out a folder that held a single crisp white sheet of paper. “I’m afraid it’s a little light on experience in wineries, but as you can see I’m not afraid of hard work.”   
  
Thoreau examined the paper. “Fishing and boat tourism, eh? You’re from Port Damali?”   
  
“Yes, sir, most recently, I’ve moved around quite a lot.”   
  
“Military family?”   
  
Fjord hesitated a fraction of an instant. “Some of us, yes.”    
  
“Are the boats a family business?” 

  
“Well, the man who first gave me the opportunity has been quite a father figure to me.”  
  
“I see.” Thoreau scanned the resume carefully, then looked at Fjord craftily. “Well, I’m afraid we don’t have much in the way of unskilled work around here, but we might be able to see our way towards an internship of some kind. Unpaid at first, of course, but if things work out there might be an opportunity for paid work later.”  
  
Fjord took a deep breath. “I understand your position, sir. And of course I would deeply appreciate the chance to learn on the job. But I’m… supporting myself, at the moment. I’m not one of those people who can afford an unpaid internship that might or might not turn into a paying job. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned from studying self-made men like yourself, sir, it’s not to undervalue your own labor just because you’ve still got a lot to learn.”  
  
There was a silence, during which Fjord held Thoreau’s gaze unhesitatingly. Beau held her breath, wide-eyed.  
  
Thoreau burst out laughing, and thwacked Ford’s shoulder heartily. “By god, I like a young man who doesn’t back down! All right – Ford, you said? Like the car? – you can start in the stock room and loading dock. It’s not fancy work, but we can use a set of strong arms around here, and if your supervisor has good things to say, perhaps I can find a use for a good mind too.”  
  
Beau’s jaw dropped. Fucking hell, it had _worked._   
  
“I can’t thank you enough, sir,” said Fjord. “When can I start?”  
  
“Right away. Beauregard –” Thoreau turned to her. “Get this young man set up, will you? Standard seasonal labor contract. Show him around and get his information entered. Then you can start on the inventory.”  
  
And just like that, it was over. Thoreau walked away, whistling softly to himself, clearly having enjoyed the chance to play the benevolent lord of the domain enough that he’d forgotten about everything he’d probably meant to say to – or shout at – his wayward daughter.   
  
“Holy _shit_ , dude,” breathed Beau. “How do you _do_ that??”  
  
“Do what?”  
  
“Just, like… manipulate him like that?”  
  
“I didn’t manipulate him, I told him the truth. Like you said.”  
  
“Yeah, but Fjord, my dad just gave you a _paying job with no references or experience_. That _does not happen around here_. Are you a fucking wizard?”  
  
Fjord scratched his head. “Beau, I just did what you told me to do. American Dream, honest young man trying to make his way. You told me how to play it, and I did.”   
  
“But…” _But if I had come to him and said all those same things, as a brown girl with an undercut and a snarky face, my own dad would’ve laughed me out of the building_. Beau didn’t say it out loud, but it was true, and it hurt. There _was_ wizardry in what Fjord had just pulled off: the magic inherent in the miraculous combination of personal charm and good old-fashioned white boy ‘luck’. Goddammit.   
  
“Fuck it, never mind. My asshole dad just loves you, apparently. You owe me so many milkshakes.”  
  
“Literal millions of milkshakes. I swear.”   
  
He looked so earnest that Beau couldn’t keep a small smile off her face. “Yeah, yeah. All right. I’ll get you entered into payroll. You got a photo ID?”  
  
Beau got him squared away in the system with only one small lie: the address he gave her was in the fanciest part of downtown Zadash, in the Spire, a new luxury apartment complex that had just gone up a few months before.   
  
“You’re living in the _Spire_?? What the hell do you need a minimum wage job for, man?”  
  
“It’s not my place, it’s Jester’s.”  
  
“You’re living with Jester?? Man, that was quick work.”  
  
“No, no, not like that.” Fjord blushed bright pink. “She’s just… she said I could use her address for job applications and stuff. And crash there, if I need to.”  
  
“So where are you staying? I thought you said you were in foster care.”  
  
“Yeah. But it’s… it’s not a great place I’ve got right now. There are a lot of kids there, and they’re not… I mean. I try not to spend a lot of time there.”  
  
“Oh. Yeah. I get that.”  
  
“Do you? Don’t you live with your parents?”  
  
“Yeah, but sometimes… sometimes it’s better not to go home. Not that it’s anything like foster care, I mean, I know I probably have it pretty good, I’ve got my own room and stuff, but sometimes, if my dad’s really mad….” Beau didn’t feel like finishing that sentence. She might not completely hate Fjord, but she wasn’t going to spill her guts to him. 

  
“Hey, Beau… Should I not work for him?” asked Fjord, after a pause.    
  
“What do you mean?”   
  
“You keep saying he’s an asshole, and you clearly hate his guts. I don’t want to… I mean, if it’s going to make things hard for you, if I’m working here, then I can keep looking for another job somewhere else. I don’t want you to feel like I’m, like, siding with you dad or something.”   
  
Beau stared at him. “Oh my god, Fjord, are you saying  _ your first loyalty is to me??” _ _   
_ _   
_ “.... Kind of, yeah.”   
  
“Dude. We just met each other yesterday. You do what you need to do. Don’t make life choices based on me or my  _ feelings _ , that’s ridiculous.”   
  
“Is it?” He squared his shoulders and looked her in the eye. “Look, Beau, I know you don’t like me very much, it kind of seems like you don’t like anyone very much, yourself included. But I…. think you’re cool.”   
  
“ _ Cool? _ Jesus. Okay, Bueller –”   
  
“Shut up, Beau. I’m trying to tell you that I like you, and I want you to like me, so it kind matters to me how you feel about stuff.”   
  
This was baffling. “....Uh, Fjord, you know I’m gay, right?”   
  
“Oh my god, Beau, I’m not trying to get in your stupid lesbian pants, I’m trying to tell you that I  _ want to be friends. _ ”   
  
“Why would you want to be friends with me?”   
  
Fjord looked exasperated enough to punch her. “Hell if I know. Maybe it’s a death wish. I guess, you know your way around town? You seem like you’d be good in a fight? I like the cut of your jib?.”   
  
“The cut of my  _ what _ now?”    
  
“You know what, never mind, I take it back, you’re an asshole, forget it.”   
  
Beau was surprised to find herself actually laughing out loud now. “No man, it’s too late. You said it. We’re basically brothers now. Sworn to protect each other. Through thick and thin.”   
  
“Beau –”   
  
“The two musketeers! All for one and one for all!”   
  
“ _ Beau _ –”   
  
“You got a pocket knife? We could swear a blood oath. Make it official.”   
  
Fjord buried his face in his hands. “What have I done? Shit. I take it all back.”   
  
Still laughing, and somehow feeling slightly lighter in some deep dark corner of her soul than she had in weeks, maybe months, Beau stuffed Fjord’s new temporary contract in his hands and dragged him out of the office. “All right,  _ home boy _ , let’s put you to work, before my dad finds out that we’re suddenly secretly besties and fires you on the spot.”


End file.
